The Light at the Bottom of the World

by London Shah

  I shuffle through the space, my arms wrapped around myself. I shake my head; a million memories all eerily tainted now. Mama’s drawings of her favorite poets, Jalaluddin Muhammad Rumi and Robert Frost, are slashed. The folding screen catches my eye; it’s been ripped off the wall and thrown on the floor. No. I step over the carnage and grab it, holding my breath as I open it. My shoulders slump in relief. All my handmade maps are still inside. Hours and hours of drawings, ever since I was a child. I prop the screen up against the wall.

  Something smooth sticks out beneath the sofa—the Medi-bot. I pull the rectangular-shaped aid out. It’s crushed on one side, the trays all damaged. There’ll be no pain relief. Jojo’s hammock lies in pieces beside it, and I pick up one of the wooden parts. Who would smash a puppy’s hammock? Papa crafted it with his own hands, insisting the lazy pup would love it, and she did. I throw the wood back. Nothing makes sense.

  “There is no available security data for today, Miss Leyla. The security system was disabled today at five thirty p.m.”

  Someone is responsible for this, and for wiping the data clean afterward. But who, and more importantly, why? My heartbeat whooshes away. I can feel it in my chest, ears, neck. My legs won’t stop trembling. I need to sit.

  “Who disabled the system, Jeeves?”

  “The system was disabled by you. Your personal ID was used. It—”

  “What?” Everything is wrong.

  “Your personal ID was used to override the internal system. Miss Leyla, is there a security problem? Would you like me to alert the authorities?”

  I frown. “Yes, please.”

  Mama’s handwoven wall hanging catches my eye. The tapestry is ripped to shreds. It was passed down from her great-grandma. I press a hand to my head. Think.

  “Miss Leyla, you are scheduled for a visit from the police at eleven a.m. tomorrow. You are advised to find a suitably safe place for the night if security has been compromised and—”

  “I’ll be fine. Jeeves, please run another search of every single file of Papa’s. Alert me to any document I haven’t opened myself.”

  It only takes a minute. And I already know the results.

  “Miss Leyla, all of Mr. Hashem McQueen’s files have been thoroughly examined. There are no documents you have not marked as read. Anything else I can help you with?”

  “No,” I reply, my voice quiet. “You can’t help me, Jeeves.”

  Everything is wrong. The flat. Papa. If only the PM had granted my request, then Papa would probably be on his way home now.

  I step over my belongings, grinding my teeth. Strangers entered our home, going through our personal things. How dare they?

  How dare anyone force themselves into our only private space in the whole world? It has to be linked to my sometimes being followed around outside and to Papa’s arrest.

  My face warms. I have a right to know what’s going on, dammit.

  I call Grandpa. No answer. I message him again, and finally the screen flickers to life.

  Except it isn’t Gramps I’m looking at—it’s a complete stranger.

  My pulse races and my stomach rolls. Have they got to Grandpa, too?

  It takes me a moment to focus and realize the guy’s around my age, maybe a little older. He’s staring back at me, eyes narrowed.

  “Who are you?” I demand. “Where’s my grandpa? What have you done with him?”

  His eyes, honey-brown, watch me intently. He folds his arms. He’s a golden-copper shade and all muscle and angles and wariness. “Your grandfather is safe,” he says, his voice low and husky and slightly irritated. “Why would you assume I wish to harm him?”

  “WHO ARE YOU AND WHERE IS MY GRANDPA?” I shout.

  He shakes his head and juts his chin out. “I am a friend, and Gideon is okay. He’s busy taking an important call. He will be here any moment. What is so urgent?”

  “Wait . . . you’re his friend’s son visiting for Christmas from the Faroe Islands? Gramps said he had a visitor staying over. And why are you answering his calls? I need to speak with him. It’s urgent!” I look behind me at the state of the room and turn to face him once more. “Please,” I say. “Call him. Somebody . . . somebody’s destroyed my flat.”

  A muscle flexes by his jaw, and he runs his hand through long, dark hair that falls to his shoulders in waves. He tries to peer around me at the room, and when he meets my gaze again, his eyes flash a fiery amber shade.

  “I will call your grandfather,” he says, and promptly leaves.

  What on earth? I pace the room trying to make sense of things. It’s impossible.

  “Queenie! Are you hurt, child?” Grandpa comes into view at last, his eyes wide.

  Oh, thank goodness he’s all right! “Gramps, who is that guy? Why’s he—”

  “Queenie! What happened? Ari said something about the flat? Are you hurt? Please, child, tell me everything at once.”

  I show Grandpa the destruction. “Why would somebody do this to my flat, Gramps? I know you know! Please tell me what’s going on! I know everything’s somehow related to Papa’s disappearance. You can’t deny it anymore!” My gaze is unwavering, the heat burning my face.

  His face falls as he absorbs my words. “Enough, child.” He holds up a hand, shoulders sagging as he nods in defeat. “I will tell you what I know. But you must wait until I get there.”

  “No, Gramps, please. No more waiting. Tell me now.”

  I’ve waited long enough. Not knowing is killing me.

  He takes a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “I’m sorry, Queenie. I should have told you. I will try and explain, child. But first let me remind you that in the absence of your father, I’m your guardian. You must understand that whatever I do, I do it with your interests at heart. You’re in danger, and you need protecting. You refuse to move in with anyone. You left me with no choice. When someone started following you a few weeks ago, I turned to my old friend Ben for help. He agreed to send his son to ensure you’re keeping safe.” He pauses when the guy reenters the room, visible in the background. Grandpa gestures to him. “Leyla, this is Ari. He isn’t here for me; he’s here to ensure your safety. Ever since he arrived, he’s watched out for you.”

  I screw my face up. “What? You asked somebody I don’t even know to come watch over me? I already told you, I don’t need anyone’s help! And why didn’t you just tell me the truth? Also”—I take in this Ari guy who right now looks like he’d rather be anywhere but here—“why would he agree to this? Why would he want to watch over a stranger?” I move closer to the screen and lower my voice. “That’s not healthy, Gramps. Please ask him to stop.”

  Ari straightens and folds his arms.

  Grandpa’s eyes dim. “He didn’t really have much choice, Queenie. You heard about the recent horrific attack in the Faroe Islands?”

  I nod and my stomach goes all funny. “What’s that got to do with anything, though?”

  Ari leaves the room. Grandpa watches him leave, his own expression heavy.

  He turns back to me. “Ari is from the Faroe Islands. His community was the one attacked. He lost someone close to him during the onslaught. His father knew I was concerned about you being followed, and afraid of how Ari might react to his friend’s death, so he sent him here to keep him busy—and you safe. He’s come a long way to help us. And I won’t apologize for taking steps to protect you, child. I only wish I’d told you.”

  I pause, swallowing. “Do you trust him, Gramps?”

  “I trust Ben, his father, with my life, and I trust Ari with yours. And as you know, right now we need people we can rely on, Queenie. He knows whatever I know of the situation.”

  “More than I do, then,” I say, unable to keep the bitterness out of my voice. “Why do I need someone to watch over me? I need answers, Gramps. I mean it. Where’s Papa? What’s really going on? If you don’t start trusting me with what you know, then I promise I’m going to ask anyone and everyone. I shan’t stop asking questions until—”

>   He tries again to persuade me to wait for him to come over but eventually sighs and nods. His face is heavy, and his shoulders drooping. My nails find their way into my mouth.

  “It breaks my heart to tell you this now, Queenie. I tried so hard to keep it from you, to keep you from the pain. But you are right, I have an obligation to tell you the truth.”

  I stare unmoving, unblinking.

  “Your father was never arrested by the police, child. It was—it was the Blackwatch that came for him.”

  I suck in my breath, my hands covering my mouth. The ominous Blackwatch. The all-powerful force meant to protect the PM. Papa dreaded them. . . . I can’t stop shaking my head.

  Pain breaks through Grandpa’s expression. “We were working, when the laboratories were suddenly cloaked in darkness. Within seconds, they were inside the premises. At first, we both presumed it was an Anthropoid attack. Your father put up a good fight before they finally identified themselves and aimed their weapons at us. One of them went for your father. I tried to help but was punched in the chest. The last I saw of him, your father was unconscious. . . . Two soldiers gagged and tied him, then hauled him out of the room. And then my world turned dark.”

  I flinch. “No! No, no, no.” I stumble back.

  Grandpa grimaces. “I’m so sorry, child. They left me behind. Your father is not in Westminster. I—I’m afraid he’s not even in London—”

  “No, don’t say that!”

  “Unfortunately, it’s true. We know your father was taken out of the city. But nobody yet knows exactly where in the country they’re keeping him. He seems to have disappeared. Do you understand, Queenie?”

  I open my mouth to speak. My lips quiver and I shut it again.

  Grandpa shakes his head. “Whoever was behind this farce of an arrest, they falsified the accusations. We’ve always known that. It has to be someone very high up for Blackwatch to do their bidding. And this makes it very difficult for us to go public. I’m afraid it’s no surprise that your request to have your father freed was rejected. It’s a mess, child. We’ve been working on it nonstop, trying to determine why they’ve taken him.”

  I stare into the space, willing myself to absorb the meaning behind all the words. But all I can see is Papa bound and gagged.

  “I’m so sorry, Queenie. And now—now they’ve done this to your place. You’re no longer safe on your own.”

  I swallow and force my voice out. “‘We’? You and who else, Gramps? And the Blackwatch . . . What could they possibly want with Papa? And why have the police lied all this time and led me to believe it’s an ordinary arrest?” The way he shakes his head and his exhausted gaze tell me he’s already puzzled over the same questions countless times. “Grandpa, what if this goes as high up as Captain Sebastian? I’m certain it was him who persuaded the PM not to grant my request—I was watching him! And after the ceremony he looked really tense and angry. What if it was linked to the state of my flat? Sounds far-fetched, but I think he’s somehow connected to all this. And he just gives me the creeps—always staring, always watching.”

  “Sebastian is unsavory, a blight on this nation, child. He’s also highly slippery, too cunning to be caught out. But yes, there’s no doubt in my mind he plays a big part in this.”

  I gasp at the confirmation, before steadying myself. “Oh, Gramps, you should have told me the truth. From the very beginning. All my visits to the police station, enquiries, petitions, the endless pleas to the authorities, searching for clues, begging for legal representation—when all that time I could’ve been doing something that might have actually helped Papa. I thought everything depended on the marathon. Oh my God, I contemplated letting someone get seriously hurt just to ensure I’d win the race so I could ask for Papa’s freedom. They could’ve died!”

  “I was wrong to keep the truth from you, child. Forgive me. I didn’t want to worry you, and I was trying to protect you. You mustn’t lose heart. We will never give up on your papa.”

  I swallow and take a deep breath. “I know you meant well, Gramps, and you’ve been bearing this burden all on your own. But you could’ve just trusted me with it, you know. Made it easier on the both of us. I’m stronger than you think. At least I finally know the truth now.”

  An hour later the news is on. Even background noise is better than being alone right now. There’s a reminder of the Anthropoid threat to the city. I turn away.

  Grandpa’s words play over and over in my head. The images make my insides ache.

  He pleaded with me to either allow him to come over now, or for me to stay at his place until we’ve sorted something out. Neither suggestion seems to solve anything, though. Not properly. I press on my temples. My head feels like the water looks after an earthquake, all sand and grit—too murky to allow for any sense of direction.

  At last I know what happened that day. How can I help Papa now? There’s nothing he wouldn’t do to help me. I wrap my arms around myself as a memory surfaces.

  There were a number of food production setbacks eight years ago when the Deptford Farm crops were destroyed in an Anthropoid attack. The terrorists also hit the huge central banana plant next door, and both bananas and the paper their stems and leaves produced were rationed for months until imports were sorted. Too young to understand the full implications, I was only worried about the shortage of paper and how it might affect my love of mapmaking. One of the country’s largest protein plants was soon after damaged in an earthquake, and suddenly there was a nationwide food crisis.

  Papa regularly went hungry so I’d have enough to eat, but I was too young to realize. He would make excuses at mealtimes, come home and apologize for having been so ravenous he’d eaten at work.

  If Grandpa hadn’t noticed his weight loss and forced him to stop . . . I try to swallow away the hardness in my throat, ease the heaviness in my chest. It’s not working. There’s just so much to think about. And, as for this Ari guy, I really don’t need anyone to watch over me! I can look after myself. My name echoes from the news. I glance at the state of the room. I’ll need to make a few lists.

  It’s impossible to focus, though.

  The authorities have been lying to me, letting me believe Papa was in Westminster. Who can I trust? There isn’t a single reason why the Blackwatch would be interested in Papa. They protect the PM—and do God knows what else. But my papa has nothing for them. Why did they take him? What do they think he’s involved in?

  There’s nothing—not a single memory, action, or shred of evidence—of anything dishonest about Papa. Absolutely nothing to indicate he ever unwittingly became involved in anything dodgy. Either they’ve made a terrible mistake, or somebody has framed him. But that still doesn’t explain why the authorities are lying to me.

  My eyes prickle, the rocklike lump in my throat increasing in size as I try to make the room safer for Jojo before she wakes up. After some further growling at all the chaos, she finally jumped into her Bliss-Pod, where the soothing sounds and lights worked their magic, and she’s now snuggled asleep inside the large pebble-like shape.

  On the news they mention how the top-five ranking contestants will receive their prize deeds and keys of ownership at the Marathon Committee offices in the morning. The excited woman then summarizes the five prizewinners and their prize lots.

  I slump yawning onto the hard, seatless sofa, rubbing my neck.

  The newsreader mentions my name. And then there I am on the podium, accepting the champion’s certificate and trophy from the PM.

  Does he know his precious Blackwatch took my papa?

  Something glimmers beside me on the sofa, tucked into the stuffing. I reach out, finding the family snowglobe. My throat grows drier, tighter. Whoever broke in must’ve thrown it. I pull it up and cup its smooth surface in my hands.

  Papa won’t be returning anytime soon. That’s the truth. I drag my legs to the window, my movements stiff. Not everything from the walls has fallen. Mama’s oil painting of Oscar Wilde, my favorite of
all her artwork, hangs lopsided, its canvas defaced like everything else. Mama loved everything about him. Why shred a canvas? Do they think Papa’s hiding something?

  Did they find what they were looking for?

  In the background, the newsreader goes into detail about the submarine I’ve won.

  I was hoping to be reunited with Papa tonight. But after all that, he’s not even in London. The thought of him being out there, somewhere in wilder waters . . . I gaze out at the shifting forms of the dark and turbulent environment. The late evening current sends waves heaving onto the building.

  Who did this to the flat? If it’s the authorities, what more do they want? They already have my whole world.

  Where are they keeping you, Papa?

  The newsreader sounds really enthusiastic now as she shares the specs of my prize vessel. I pause, listening to the details for the first time. My heart stutters at her words. Everything stills for a second. And then just like that it surfaces, riding in on the furtive current and crashing into me, reckless and alarming.

  A wild, outrageous idea.

  I look down at the globe, tipping it until the glitter falls inside the glass dome. The rainbow fish swim and the tiny submarine bobs away in the turquoise liquid.

  I gaze, unblinking, into the all-encompassing vastness outside. I hold my breath, clutching my chest. Its weight will crush me.

  Where are you, Papa?

  I press my face against the window and shudder at the inky void before me. Such a mystifying expanse. Such a dense darkness.

  The current gathers speed and the waves around Bankside swell, growing bigger and stronger. A storm is gathering force.

  I close my eyes, take a deep breath and exhale, and give in to the unthinkable thoughts.

  “The name’s Deathstar. I’m the mechanic who’s been caring for the beauty you’ve won, and I’ll be giving you the tour of your prize vessel. So friggin’ chuffed to meet you!”

  The mechanic’s eyes sparkle and he grins widely, bouncing from foot to foot as he guides the twins and me toward my prize sub. We walk along one of the lengthy walkways inside the principal base in Mayfair. In the water between these walkways sit rows of government vessels. The humongous enclosure is never-ending. A camera, controlled by a woman trailing way behind, whizzes around us. Publicity doesn’t end with the race.